Let's Dance
by Mina Underhill
Summary: Ron gets drunk. Harry gets drunker and sings David Bowie.


**Author's Note:** This came to me in the very early morning at work while I had David Bowie stuck in my head. Hence, a little odd.  
**Warning:** Mention of alcohol, implied sexual activity, drunkenness, and gratuitous ellipses.  
**Disclaimer:** I own neither J.K. Rowling nor David Bowie. If I owned Bowie, I would gift him to my _Labyrinth_ obsessed friends, and if I owned Rowling I would force her to develop her characters further and put Draco and Hermione together, as well as Harry with Ron. But, sadly, it's not my choice to make, so I'll write fic instead.  
**  
Let's Dance**

Ron was having a rough night.

First, the pretty young witch with the long blonde hair and charming smile that he had been halfheartedly chatting up had turned out to be a twelve-year-old transformed by a very strong Aging Potion. Her father had shown up to drag her home just as Ron has screwed up his courage to ask her to coffee the next day.

His second problem was Harry.

Though they had only lived there three months, the villagers of Hogsmeade had already learned, the hard way, that the Boy Who Lived could not hold his drink. Tonight, he was recounting increasingly exaggerated accounts of his adventures at Hogwarts to a group of extremely giggly local girls.  
"An' I whirled 'round an' stabbed out his eyes… Tha's very dang'rous, y'know, 'cause basilisks can freeze y'like that if they look at you, but I stabbed him, an' lunged a' him, an' he reared up, he musta been…" Harry paused for breath "_eighty_ feet high an' he reared up…" He gesticulated wildly with his Firewhiskey, slopping a good lot of it down his front. Ron turned to Hermione as he felt an odd pang of something curiously like jealousy in the pit of his stomach.  
"Harry's certainly outdoing himself tonight, isn't he?" said Hermione calmly.  
"Yeah," grunted Ron into his Butterbeer, still disconcerted by the jealousy he'd felt a minute ago. He wasn't so much put out by the fact that Harry was talking to girls and he wasn't but by the fact that Harry wasn't talking to _him_…

Hermione's voice cut across his train of thought.  
"We really ought to take him home, Ron, we're getting stares again, and if he drinks any more he'll be sick." Both she and Ron had notable expertise in the matter of Harry's drinking binges: Ron's Scouring Spell had greatly improved since he and Harry had begun sharing a flat.  
"Right," said Ron determinedly, draining his mug and turning to Harry, who was now giggling uncontrollably into the bar top.  
"Y'know, think Knockturn Alley," gasped Harry, holding his sides. "If y'say it funny, sounds a bit like" he scrunched up his face in concentration "_nocturnally_, like bats!" Even the local girls appeared turned off by the gale of laughter following this and were slowly edging away.  
"C'mon, Harry, up you get," said Ron firmly, placing his hands under his hysterical friend's arms and pulling him off his stool. He draped one of Harry's arms around his shoulder and put one of his own around Harry's waist. Hermione held the door open for them and bid the bartender a courteous goodnight.  
"'Night!" shouted Harry much more exuberantly to the pub in general. "Sleep tight, an' don' let th'Nifflers bite!" He appeared very pleased with himself for coming up with this, and treated himself to a peal of laughter. Ron escorted him firmly out of the door.

Outside they were greeted by a cool, clear fall night. A crescent moon and a smattering of stars lighted their way up the quiet street towards their respective dwellings. Hermione had taken Harry's other side, who was now muttering and chuckling quietly to himself. Ron felt calm and peaceful for the first time that whole night.  
They soon arrived in front of the house from which Hermione was letting a room with, to Harry and Ron's chagrin, Draco Malfoy.  
"Do you need me to help you take him home, Ron?" asked Hermione patiently.  
"Nah, I reckon I've got it managed. He's rather calmed down now anyway."  
"Good, I'd best see if Draco's home yet. He was having another lad's night out, and if he's returned, he'll be in a right state…" She rolled her eyes. "Well, good night, you two! And good luck with Harry, Ron," she added quietly as she swept inside.  
"Never unnerstood it wi' those two," slurred Harry, but Ron knew better than to encourage Harry to start on that rant again, especially after all he'd had to drink.

The two set off further up the street. Harry was now completely silent and had wrapped both arms round Ron's middle and pillowed his head on Ron's shoulder. It made walking even more difficult, but gave Ron thrills of happiness up and down his spine that he could not explain.  
After several blissful, silent minutes, they reached the house. Ron hoped Harry's sleepy mood would linger at least until they got upstairs, as their landlady was notoriously bad-tempered when woken. Ron fumbled for his key, let them silently in, and arduously climbed to the third floor with an intoxicated Harry dragging his feet and stumbling.

Ron had had high hopes of putting Harry to bed without much fuss, but as soon as they entered the flat, Harry perked up considerably and let go of Ron, throwing off his robes and tottering off in the general direction of the kitchen in his jeans and t-shirt. He had not got halfway there before he stopped, turned, and said quite abruptly,  
"I want to listen to David Bowie."  
"What?" replied Ron, quite inexperienced in the realm of Muggle music.  
"David Bowie. Brilliant music. Pity we haven't got a turntable an' an ol' LP or two, I could really go for a dance," said Harry, looking a bit crestfallen.  
Ron was now thoroughly perplexed. "Well, I suppose we could try and find some of these things tomorrow, but for now—"  
"—don't want to listen to him tomorrow, I want to listen _now_," whined Harry, and without further ado sprinted across the room, sprung onto Ron's bed, and launched into a slightly wobbly but energetic version of "Let's Dance."  
"_Les' dance… put on your red shoes and dance the blues…_"  
Ron's mouth hung agape. He had never seen Harry quite this inebriated, and vowed never to let him have that many Firewhiskies again as he stepped forward to remove Harry from the bed before he did himself any harm.  
"_Les' sway… while the colour lights up your face…_"  
Ron neared the bed, but there was no stopping Harry now: he was nearing the chorus with increasing crescendo and had begun an odd male-stripper-meets-line-dance stumble on the bed, his feet tangled dangerously in the covers.  
"_An' if y'say run, I'll run wi' you… An' if y'say hide, we'll hiiiide…_" he warbled, removing his shirt and flinging it onto a lamp, dimming the light and worrying Ron with the danger of potential fire, but Ron was still more concerned with Harry's precarious position.  
"_Because m'love for you, would break m'heart in two…_"  
Harry was now holding still, looking directly at Ron, whose stomach gave a funny lurch-almost as though Harry were singing directly to him, saying the words to him… but that was silly…  
"_If you should fall, into my arms, an' tremble like a flower…_"  
An awkward pause followed this, as on "into my arms", Harry had grabbed Ron by the shoulders and pulled him close to him, so that Ron's cheek lay pressed against Harry's heaving bare stomach, Ron's nose to his navel. Harry stopped singing, and Ron's throat became very dry as one of Harry's hands left Ron's shoulder and began toying with strands of red hair. And all of a sudden, it made sense…  
Their deep loyalty, their friendship, was not, and had never been, just friendly love…  
The pangs he had felt during the last couple of years as he had begun to realize…  
His sadness as their years at Hogwarts had drawn to a close, his elation when they'd decided to become flatmates…  
He, as the thing Harry would most miss…  
Every stab of jealously he'd felt when others were talking to Harry, admiring Harry, taking Harry away from him…  
_His _Harry…  
_Harry…  
_Apparently, Harry's mind was taking similar leaps; for he pulled Ron's head back from his stomach and looked down into his eyes with a look of incredulity, gasping "_Ron_…"

He jumped off the bed, threw his arms around Ron's neck, and pressed his mouth eagerly to Ron's.

Ron had kissed girls before, and mildly enjoyed it, but he had never liked any of the girls much, perhaps because the thought of Harry had always been lingering at the back of his mind. Harry was nothing like them, _his_ Harry, with his warm mouth encompassing Ron's…  
And he melted into the kiss entirely as Harry pulled him forward onto the bed.

The next morning Ron awoke dehydrated and with a headache, and slightly confused as to why Harry and he were both in their knickers, and why Harry was curled next to him, Ron's arms around his shoulders. Ron felt a flush creep into his face as the previous night's events rushed back. Certainly, _he _hadn't minded what had happened, but Harry had been smashed. Perhaps he ought to leave Harry and act, when Harry woke up, as though nothing had happened, though this still would not explain to Harry why he was in Ron's bed.  
As if in response to these thoughts, Harry stirred in Ron's arms and slowly opened his eyes, blinking and yawning. He gradually took in both his and Ron's state of undress, the way he was curled against his best friend, and the pounding of his head.  
"Ron… we didn't… _shag_, did we?" he asked cautiously.  
"No," said Ron, feeling miserably embarrassed. "I think we did some other stuff though… Listen, Harry, we were both pretty drunk, and this could make things weird between us… If y'like, we could just forget about it—"  
"—Did you enjoy it?" Harry cut in quietly.  
"What? Well, er, yeah, I did, but you don't necessarily 'swing that way', and I'm really, sorry, you were totally tanked, and I…"  
"I enjoyed it too."  
"Oh, did you?" said Ron, completely flustered now. He wanted Harry to have liked it, but what could this all mean?  
"I… haven't a good way of putting it, Ron, but I've cared about you… more than a friend… forever it seems," said Harry, sadly.  
"Harry… oh… I…"  
"I love you, Ron."  
"I love _you_, Harry. But… how long have you known?"  
"Known that I loved you? I've loved you as long as I've known you, but I realized it, or began to, in our fourth year, when we had that dreadful row… the thing I'd most miss, remember?" he said, smiling at the memory.  
"I suppose Dumbledore knew before we did, then, knowing what you'd miss the most," laughed Ron, pulling his Harry close to him and kissing him again, regardless of the way his breath smelled from alcohol and mornings.  
"I wonder what Hermione will say," mused Harry, frowning, when Ron pulled away at last.  
"Don't reckon she'll care," replied Ron lightheartedly, and then, imitating Hermione, " 'Oh, this is completely normal: boys spending so much time together, saving each other's lives-this sort of thing happens all the time. I read about it in Homosexuality: A History.'"

Harry laughed the most beautiful laugh Ron had ever heard, and pulled him under the covers.

**Special Update!** My lovely friend Lily has drawn an illustration for this fic. It may be found over at deviantart. Unfortunately, FF.N is not letting me link it, so just put "view/17215280/" after the deviantart address to see it! Hope that works...


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